


Painted Eyes

by onwards_outwards



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Aelin is lonely and misses her friends, Aging, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Next Generation, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:08:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28821234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onwards_outwards/pseuds/onwards_outwards
Summary: When Elide and Lorcan's great-great-grandchildren come to Orynth for a visit, Aelin is left with the impossible task of trying to explain their family history to them - but how can she sum up how much she loved Elide? Or how much she misses Lorcan? Or how inhumanly lonely she feels without her court at her side?
Relationships: Elide Lochan/Lorcan Salvaterre
Comments: 34
Kudos: 50





	Painted Eyes

Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius has lived in Orynth castle for over one hundred years, and has been decorating her Portrait Hall for just as long. Now, the corridor is home to so many portraits it’s nearly impossible to see the wall between their gilded frames.

Some days, she avoids the Hall at all costs, no matter how late it makes her to meetings. She takes the servants’ passages or skirts through the gardens – anything to avoid the kind gazes of her friends.

But when she woke this morning to the sound of the delegation from Perranth arriving, the wheels of their carriage rattling outside her window, she practically sprinted to the safety of the Portrait Hall. Rowan had watched her go with an understanding nod, and Aelin knew he’d greet their visitors for her, stall them for as long as he can. For as long as it takes for the lump in her throat to disappear.

Aelin strolls down the hall, running a hand along the frames, until she comes to the portrait she’d been looking for.

She looks up into the familiar pair of dark, painted eyes and something in her chest breaks.

“Hello, Elide,” she whispers to the empty corridor, tracing the edge of her friend’s gown with her finger.

Aelin can almost imagine Elide’s low, warm voice coming from those slightly quirked lips. “Running away from my family, are you?” she’d ask in that quiet, knowing way of hers.

“I’m not running,” the Queen mutters, looking up at the forever-still face of her friend. “I’m just…taking a break. Before greeting them.”

Elide’s face doesn’t move. She doesn’t roll her eyes or give a slight scoff, not like the real Elide would have.

Aelin knows that she won’t. Knows that the portrait is just a portrait. Knows that no matter how much she prays or begs or rages, Elide will forever look at her with that same steady, assessing gaze. She’s certainly spent enough nights crying in this corridor to know that.

It had started as little more than a joke in her court when Aelin began commissioning her friends’ portraits. They had all laughed and called her sentimental, begrudgingly posing for the artists she sent to their homes. Only Lorcan seemed to fully understand her obsession with capturing their likenesses.

Lorcan, who had watched generations of people die in his lifetime, knew what it was to watch those you love wither away. 

Lorcan, who had given up his Fae immortality so Elide wouldn’t have to face death alone.

Maybe that’s why his and Elide’s portraits were always more serious, solemn. Unlike Lysandra, who always managed to hide some phallic symbol in the background.

This corridor is full of the faces of her friends – young and old, laughing and serious, posed and candid. There’s forty-year old Dorian, arm slung over Chaol’s shoulders. Lysandra, posed before a fireplace, still as regal as ever even in her seventies. Yrene, young and healthy, overseeing the construction of the Torre of Rifthold. Aedion, grinning from atop a horse, sword in hand. Lorcan, wearing a rare, soft smile as he held his daughter in his arms. And of course, the whole court as Aelin knew them during the war, posed around a table like some knights in a legend.

But out of all of them, this one might be her favorite. She has long forgotten the name of the artist who painted it, but she hopes she gave him an award for this portrait. It’s deceptively simple at first glance – Elide, seated in a chair and Lorcan standing behind her, a protective hand on her shoulder – but it makes Aelin’s heart stutter.

It’s _Elide_ , down to the way she sits, the way she holds her weight, the slightest upturn of her lips at the corners. And _Lorcan_ , unyielding and intimidating, but with a hint of joy glinting in his eyes. More accurate than her own memories.

Aelin blinks away the sudden burn of tears, laughing to keep herself from weeping. 

She glances back up. Elide’s upturned mouth seems to be smiling just for her, and Aelin can almost feel her friend’s sharp elbow in her ribs, almost hear her soft laughter mixing with her own.

“What are you laughing at?”

Only here, visiting the ghosts of her past, could Aelin lose so much of her instincts to allow herself to be snuck up on. She turns, startled, to the source of the voice.

For a split second, she isn’t sure if she should cry or smile.

She chooses to smile.

It isn’t the girl’s fault, after all, that her face breaks the Queen’s heart.

A little girl lingers at the mouth of the hallway, head tilted quizzically. Aelin hasn’t seen her since she was a toddler, but she knows who the girl is immediately – it’s in the turn of her lips, the curtain of black hair brushing her shoulder, the raw intelligence in her dark eyes.

Six years old, staring down the Queen of Terrasen.

_She takes after you_ , Aelin thinks wryly, glancing up at the portrait.

A boy comes skidding around the corner before Aelin can answer. His eyes narrow when he sees the girl and he grabs her arm with a hissed, “Marion! You can’t just run off like that.”

Marion’s big eyes don’t waver from Aelin. The boy, her brother, follows her gaze and hurries to bow at the sight of the Queen.

A few years older than his little sister, Aelin can tell the boy takes after Lorcan, the Fae blood running strong even generations later. Barely over the threshold into puberty, he’s already tall and broad, and Aelin would think he might have the makings of a warrior if not for the bashful curve of his broad shoulders, the ink stains on his fingers.

“Apologies, your Majesty,” he says, wrenching his sister’s arm. “She doesn’t know her _manners_.”

“It’s all right,” Aelin says, and is surprised by how thick her voice is. “Come here. Truly, it’s all right.”

The boy hesitates, looking over his shoulder, but the girl tears out of his grip and hurries toward her. For a moment, she seems unsure whether to curtsy, but Aelin sweeps her into a hug before she can decide.

“Your Majesty,” she girl giggles into her shoulder.

“ _Marion_!” her brother hisses.

“It’s all right,” Aelin repeats, standing. “Didn’t your mother tell you I was a friend of the family?”

Her heart gives a pang as they shift their weight, clearly uncomfortable under her gaze.

There was a time when her friends’ children considered her family. She remembers Aedion and Lysandra’s brood of children climbing over her like a piece of furniture, Elide’s shy daughter Callie hiding in her skirts as Chaol and Yrene’s son tried to give her a flower.

But with every generation that has passed, a gulf has grown between Aelin and their families. She remains close to Dorian’s descendants out of professional necessity, since she works so often with the rulers of Adarlan, but gone are the days when she spent the summers in Perranth and the winters in Caraverre, when she took half-year trips to Anielle just to annoy Chaol. 

“Well –” the boy starts, but Marion interrupts.

“Mother told us we need to be polite,” she says brightly. “She says we’re hellions.”

“She says _you’re_ a hellion,” the boy mutters.

Aelin chuckles and she swears an echo of a once-familiar laugh joins her own.

“Your Majesty, my name is Cillian Lochan,” the boy says. “And this is Marion, my sister.”

“Marion’s an ugly, old name,” the girl says, her face screwed up in disgust. “But Mother says it’s –”

“A family name,” Aelin finishes. “Yes, I know.”

Marion gives her a confused look, but something like realization dawns across Cillian’s face.

“Is that what you were laughing at?” Marion says, pointing at the portrait.

Cillian puts a hand on his sister’s shoulder, gazing up at the figures in the frame. “She looks like our mother,” he says softly, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes.

“Yes,” Aelin says softly. “She does.”

“Marion, that’s our great-grandmother,” the boy says, looking to the Queen for affirmation. “Isn’t she?”

“Your great- _great_ -grandmother, actually,” Aelin says. “She was your Great Gran Callie’s mother.”

“Great Gran had a _mother_?” Marion gasps, taking a step closer to the portrait. “I thought she’d been old forever.”

“Oh, yes,” Aelin says, grinning. “Your Great Gran was once a little child, just like you. And her mother…well, her mother was a _hero_.”

“Really?” Marion asks in a hushed whisper.

“She fought in the Valg war,” Cillian says, nodding.

Aelin bites back a smile. She’d heard about the boy’s studiousness from the his mother’s letters; how ironic that a boy who looks so much like Lorcan Salvaterre should want to be a scholar and not a warrior. Her smile suddenly falters.

_You would be so proud_ , she thinks, remembering Lorcan’s subtle smile, his biting sarcasm. _So proud, you fucking beast._

“ _She_ did?” Marion asks, pointing up at her foremother. “But she’s so small!”

“So are you,” Aelin laughs, imagining the look that would cross Elide’s face if she were here. “You don’t think you could be a hero, then?” 

Marion’s face twists in confusion as she considers the question, but Cillian’s eyes gleam with curiosity as he looks up at her. “She helped defeat the Valg King Erawan, right? And she saved Lorcan Salvaterre at the battle of Anielle?”

“You’ve been reading some history books, haven’t you?” Aelin asks.

The boy blushes but nods. “The Battle of Anielle is my favorite part of _The Epic of the Valg Wars.”_

“He’s memorized it,” Marion says.

“Have not!” he says, elbowing her.

“You didn’t realize Lorcan and Elide were your ancestors?”

He nods, his eyes glued on the portrait.

“I did, I just didn’t realize…” He shakes his head, eyes wide in wonder. “Well, that they were _real_. Did they really look like that?”

Aelin nods, wondering if the boy realizes that the face he wears – from his thick brows to the stern set of his mouth – is Lorcan’s.

“How did _she_ get _him_ on a horse?” he says. “He’s _massive_.”

Aelin laugh outright at that. For a split second, she’s sure if she looked over her shoulder she’d see Lorcan’s wry grin behind her.

“Sheer will,” Aelin says. “And a whole lot of stubbornness.”

“And the power of _lo-o-ove_ ,” Marion teases.

Cillian’s face flushes instantly. Aelin senses this isn’t the first time the siblings have had this argument. “It was _not_. He was a _warrior_ – not some idiot from your romance stories.”

“He most certainly was!” Marion responds hotly. “He's in _The Love Stories of Erilea_! He gave up _immortality_ for the woman he loved!”

“He probably just faded away, like the Fae do,” Cillian argues. “There’s no way a warrior like _Lorcan Salvaterre_ would give up everything for _love_.”

Aelin can almost feel Lorcan’s spirit bristling in the Afterworld, can almost imagine his hand grabbing her shoulder. _Tell him_ , she hears his rasping voice say. _Tell them who I was. Tell them who Elide let me become._

“Lorcan Salvaterre would be _proud_ to be remembered as a lover instead of a warrior,” she says, trying to keep any severity out of her voice. “He considered loving Elide his greatest accomplishment.”

“Really?” Cillian asks doubtfully.

“He told me once it was the honor of his lifetime,” she says. “And he had a very long lifetime, full of many, many honors.”

A little abashed, Cillian looks back at the portrait, his eyes lingering on Lorcan’s hand on Elide's shoulder, the way Elide leans slightly into his touch. The way Lorcan’s whole, enormous body seems to be angled toward Elide, like a flower turning its face to the sun.

“What were they like?” Marion asks.

Aelin considers the question. How can she sum up Elide’s steady warmth and Lorcan’s fierce loyalty? Or Lysandra’s sparkling wit and Aedion’s unwavering consistency? Or Dorian’s sharp intelligence and Chaol’s quiet humor?

And for a moment, she feels inhumanly lonely.

Then she looks down at Marion and sees Elide’s wide, dark eyes looking back at her and her broken heart is remade.

“Elide was…she was steady,” Aelin says. “You children can never understand what a war truly feels like, no matter how many history books you read, and I pray you never do. But war is…it’s _chaos_. But Elide never wavered. Any time I needed her, she was there – always listening, always watching, always saying something so wise and measured it made me feel like a child. Even after my coronation, I wrote her almost daily – asking her opinion on a crop shortage or how to deal with a mouthy advisor. Elide was just…always there.”

_Until she wasn’t_ , Aelin finishes in her mind, remembering Elide’s funeral, the crowds of thousands lining Orynth’s streets to mourn a beloved war hero.

“And Lorcan?” Cillian prompts softly.

“Lorcan was…” Aelin laughs. “Lorcan and I didn’t start on the best of terms. First time I met him, he put a blade to my throat.”

“No!” Marion gasps, but Cillian doesn’t look surprised. He must have read about it already. Strange, to be a subject of history. Aelin doesn’t _feel_ that old…does she?

“But then I sent him into a den of Valg, so I suppose that made us even,” Aelin says with a smile and a shrug.

“He served the Valg Queen, didn’t he?” asks Cillian.

Aelin considers delving into the whole betraying-everyone-to-Maeve thing, but decides against it. It’s ancient history. Literally. Besides, she can just imagine the wrath Elide would have waiting for her in the Afterworld if she disparaged her husband to her great-great-grandchildren.

“He did,” Aelin concedes. “But he was lost and confused and hurting. We all were.”

“What happened?” Marion asks. “What changed?”

“He found Elide,” Aelin says, smiling. “And the rest is history.”

“So, he gave up a Queen he’d followed for centuries, fought a war, almost _died_ , then gave up his immortality…all because he loved her?” Cillian says, raising his brows doubtfully.

“Lorcan and Elide loved each other more than I’ve ever seen two people love each other – before or since,” Aelin says. “Truthfully, it was disgustingly sweet. I could barely stand to be in the same room as them sometimes.”

“But surely their love was nothing compared to yours and King Rowan’s,” Marion says eagerly. “ _The Love Stories of Erilea_ calls you twin souls!”

“Is that so?” Aelin says. She smiles, imagining Rowan’s face when she tells him just how famous their romance is. “Well, if Rowan and I have twin souls, Lorcan and Elide _shared_ a soul. They were true equals, though you’d never guess it just by looking at them. They found what they needed in each other.”

“But…But didn’t she live long after he died, ma’am?” Cillian asks gently. “I mean, everyone says the Kings of Adarlan were soulmates, but when King Dorian died, King Chaol didn’t last the rest of the year. But after Lorcan died, Lady Elide lived for years and years.”

“Oh, yes,” Aelin says, her heart giving a painful pang at the thought of her oldest friends. “Dorian and Chaol loved each other deeply; Chaol had already lived through the early death of his wife, Lady Yrene. Only King Dorian’s love kept him going. When he lost him? It was only a matter of time.”

She takes a deep breath, looking up at Elide’s young, unlined face, remembering the last time she saw her. Dark eyes clouded with cataracts, her skin paper-thin, her hair white and brittle. But that smile – that clever, cunning, kind smile – stayed the same.

“Elide lost part of herself the day Lorcan died,” Aelin says, but isn’t sure how to continue. How to tell this story that still breaks her heart.

“How could he have…I mean, your Majesty, wasn’t he Fae?” Marion asks quietly, her hand slipping into her brother’s.

Aelin heaves a sigh. “He was a very powerful Fae male, yes. But early in their marriage, Lorcan gave up his immortality, so he could grow old with Elide. He was still stronger and faster than humans, still retained his powers – but he was vulnerable to death in a way he had never been before.”

Aelin looks up at the portrait. Lorcan’s painted eyes stare blindly back at her.

“It was a freak accident,” Aelin says. “King Rowan and I were visiting Perranth, actually, and all of us were about to go on a hunt. We were laughing and talking and joking around, just as happy as we could be. Lorcan had just helped Elide onto her mount, then got on his horse when it spooked. The horse bucked him off, he landed wrong and…well, not even the strongest demi-Fae can survive a broken neck.”

A hush has fallen over the hall; the children know something important is being said, that this touches their Queen’s heart.

But she sees the silent protests in their eyes. The same protests that had filled her own throat when Aelin saw Lorcan’s limp, broken form on the ground outside Perranth castle. _He’s_ Lorcan, _he's invincible_ , she had thought, over and over. _He can’t die, not like_ this _._

“The _sound_ Elide made when she saw him…”

Aelin’s skin crawls at the memory. At the way Elide had launched herself at Lorcan and screamed in grief. The way she’d clung to his body long after he’d gone cold, the way she tore at her own skin when they took him away.

She comes to her senses, remembers she’s speaking to children. She forces a smile and ruffles Cillian’s hair. “She joked, later in life, that it was better Lorcan left first. If he’d had to withstand Elide’s death, Lorcan would have razed Perranth to the ground then flung himself off the nearest tower.”

The anecdote, which Aelin personally thought was pretty funny, did nothing to wipe the frowns off of the children’s faces.

_I guess you had to be there,_ she thinks. 

“Anyway, she came to live with me a few years after,” Aelin says, trying to sound cheerful. “She abdicated her title to your Great Gran Callie – she was already married to your great-grandfather, Dillon Westfall, by then – and came to Orynth. Said she couldn’t do any work without Lorcan. He taught her to read, you know, and after he was gone she said she couldn’t bear to look at a page. That every letter reminded her of him. I don’t think she ever read another book after he died.”

Aelin sighs, meeting Elide’s painted gaze.

“Those were good years, though,” she says, more to herself than the children. “She knew I was lonely. The rest of our court was dying one by one. Yrene first, then Lorcan, the kings, Aedion, Lysandra. It’s hard to watch your friends age.”

“Oh, I know,” Marion says wisely. “My friend, Elsie, is a whole year older than me.”

Cillian looks pained with embarrassment, but Aelin smiles. “Exactly,” she says, grinning at the girl. “Eventually it was only Elide left. She stayed for my sake, I think. She understood what it was to be lonely, and she tried to spare me that. But eventually, she had to go.”

“Your Majesty,” Cillian starts, unsure. “Wasn’t she…wasn’t she over one hundred?”

“Yes,” Aelin says. “One hundred and two, actually.”

“Well…you’re making it sound like a choice. Like she chose to…to die.”

“I think she did,” Aelin says gently. “If anyone was stubborn enough to outlast Death, it would have been Elide Lochan. She had no trouble taming Death’s most fearsome warrior, after all. But in the end, I think she just missed Lorcan too much. I think she had to see him again.”

Revisiting these memories usually brings tears to her eyes, but now she only smiles, looking at the very mark they left on the world, the children they left behind. A testament to their love, to the peace they found in each other.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Marion says, her voice hushed, as she slides her tiny hand into Aelin’s palm. “I’m sure she misses you, too.”

Suddenly, Aelin is beyond speech. Only a child with Elide Lochan’s blood in her veins could say something so disarming, so earnest, so insightful. The Queen considers her tiny, thoughtful face, but a familiar voice rings through the corridor before she can think of something to say.

“Marion? Cillian? I _told_ you not to wander off!”

Aelin grins as their mother, Asterin – another family name – rounds the corner with fire in her eyes. She shares the dark hair typical of the Lochan family, but something in the way she furrows her brow reminds Aelin of Chaol – a sudden, unexpected reminder Callie and Dillon’s love.

“Oh! Your Majesty!” the Lady of Perranth says, dropping into a curtsy before hurrying down the hall into Aelin’s outstretched arms. “It’s been too long, Aelin.”

“My fault completely,” Aelin says, cupping the woman’s face in her hands. “I’ve been telling your children their family history.”

“Have you been learning a lot with Aunt Aelin?” Asterin asks, laughing as Marion clings to her thigh.

“Yes,” Cillian says, practically bouncing with excitement. “So much!”

Aelin smiles, but hearing the familiar title of “aunt” rings a bell in her mind. 

“Asterin, you brought your grandmother with you on this visit, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Asterin says, her smile quickly fading. “King Rowan took her to her chambers, ma’am, but she’s…she’s not doing well. I usually wouldn’t let her exert herself on such a journey but…Aelin, I’m afraid this might be your last chance to see her.”

Aelin’s heart drops through her chest. Rowan had warned her about this. Watching friends die is one thing, but watching your friends’ _children_ die…it’s another torture entirely. Sweet Dillon Westfall’s heart gave out twenty years ago, and all of Aedion and Lysandra’s children have gone, too. Only Callie and her sister-in-law, Josefin Westfall, remain. Jo’s mind is still sharp, her body still healthy; she writes Aelin frequent letters, complaining about how busy she is running the Torre of Rifthold. Callie, on the other hand…

“Her mind has continued to slip?”

“She rarely knows where – or when – she is,” Asterin says with a grimace. “She often asks for her mother.”

“Elide,” Marion offers helpfully.

“Yes,” Aelin says, trying to smile. “Elide.”

“Children, I think we’ve bothered the Queen enough.” She hushes Cillian when he begins to protest. “We’re visiting for a month – you’ll have plenty of time to ask her about all the history you want. We’ll leave her to recover from you little hellions.”

“I’ll see you later,” Aelin promises, crouching to speak directly to the children. “And then we’ll show your mother just how much of a _hellion_ her Queen can be, hm?”

They laugh, shy under the attention of royalty, but nod eagerly.

“Your Majesty,” the Lady of Perranth says, dipping her head in respect.

“I’ll see you at supper,” Aelin says, watching Asterin lead her children – Aelin’s new friends – out of the hall.

In the new silence of the Portrait Hall, Aelin looks back up at Elide and Lorcan. His stern glare, her quiet smile. His brutal body, her tiny figure.

They are myths, ghosts, legends in history books, and heroes of romance stories.

They are her friends.

Aelin kisses her fingertips and drags them along the hem of Elide’s gown, the sleeve of Lorcan’s shirt.

“I miss you,” she whispers, turning and walking down the corridor before she can be disappointed when they don’t answer.

Aelin finds Rowan waiting for her in their chambers. She quickly waves away his concern and asks where Callie is. He points her to the guest wing, where the rest of the Lochans are staying, too.

“Do you want company?” he asks, pressing a calloused hand to her cheek.

“No, love, I think…I think I want to do this myself,” she says, leaning into his touch.

“All right,” he says, centuries of understanding gleaming in his eyes. “I’ll be here when you need me.”

She makes her way through the castle to the guest wing, stopping for a moment to listen to the excited conversation floating through the door belonging to Asterin and her wife.

“…and the Queen said she was _friends_ with her, mother, did you know that?”

“And Lorcan actually left Queen Maeve for a _human_ , for _Elide_ …”

She smiles to herself, continuing down to the end of the corridor to the grandest chamber. A servant is quietly closing the door behind her as Aelin approaches.

“Oh, your Majesty, she’s not very lucid right now,” the woman says apologetically.

“It’s all right,” Aelin says. “I’ll sit with her a while.”

The servant nods and leaves, sympathy clear in her eyes.

Aelin takes a deep, steadying breath before stepping inside the room.

She has known Callidora Lochan as a newborn with a shock of black hair, as a toddler who loved nothing more than riding on her father’s shoulder, as a shy child who was smarter than most adults, as a young woman who Dillon Westfall trailed after like a puppy, as a grown woman under whose rule Perranth flourished.

A wellspring of memories bursts from her heart as she looks at Callie – but Callie knows nothing as she turns her vacant eyes on her Aunt.

“I will not be taking guests, at this moment,” she says severely from an armchair by the fire. Her once black hair is gray, her once tall, broad frame is small and wizened. Her voice wavers with age, but her tone is so firm that if she hadn’t been sipping from an empty teacup, Aelin might have thought her lucid.

“Callidora,” Aelin admonishes gently, the familiar syllables rolling off her tongue with ease. “Is that any way to talk to your Aunt?”

Callie turns to face her and her eyes flash with recognition. At once, her regal air devolves into that of a child.

“Auntie Aelin!” she cries, trying to stand.

“No, no, don’t get up!” Aelin hurries over, bending to embrace her but careful to be gentle. Her bones feel brittle beneath her touch, as if they might break if Aelin squeezes too hard. “It’s so good to see you, Callie!”

“You too!” she says, joyous in that unbridled way that only children are. “Where have you been? You said you’d visit for Yulemas! Papa took me to the forest and cut down a Yulemas tree for me!”

“Did he?” Aelin says in an impressed gasp, taking the seat by Callie’s.

“He let me put it in my room,” Callie says, beaming with pride. “Mama pretended she didn’t like it, but she helped me decorate it when Papa wasn’t around.”

“That sounds like your mama,” Aelin says, blinking away the burn in her eyes as Callie grins at her. “She can be tricky, can’t she?”

“Oh, yes. One time…” Callie starts, but trails off, her eyes going suddenly vacant. She looks around, as if searching for something.

“What is it, Callie?” Aelin asks, reaching out to take her thin, shriveled hand in hers.

“Where _is_ Mama?” she asks. “She was supposed to be here by now…she said she’d come. Where is she, Auntie?”

Aelin opens her mouth, unsure what to say.

“And Papa? He always comes when I call for him.”

Tears spill onto Aelin’s cheeks at the sudden waver in Callie’s voice. She can’t imagine how much it would hurt Lorcan to hear his daughter cry for him, wonder why he won’t come for her. She knows that wherever he is, Lorcan is fighting to get back to his little girl. Trying to come when she calls.

“They’re coming soon, Callie,” Aelin says, squeezing her hand. “They’ll be here in a few minutes, all right? Why don’t you tell me more stories? You know how much Auntie Aelin loves stories.”

“Oh…” Callie looks uncertainly at the door, as though deciding whether or not she can trust Aelin’s word. After a moment, though, her eyes go vacant again and she looks back at Aelin. “ _Auntie_?” she asks, excitedly.

Aelin forces herself to smile again. “Yes, Callie, I came to visit! I missed you too much to stay away!”

Callie smiles, wide and bright, before starting a story about a time when Elide bought her a kitten, then veers into a tale about Lorcan sneaking her sweets when she was sick, before getting distracted by a memory of catching Lorcan and Elide dancing in their chambers one night.

“It was weird, Auntie,” she says. “There was no music and they were in their bedclothes, but they were dancing a waltz as if they were in the middle of a ballroom. Just laughing and smiling at each other. It was _strange_.”

“Love tends to make you strange,” Aelin says. “Dillon made you do strange things, didn’t he? I remember receiving a letter from your Papa asking me what to do when his little girl snuck out of her room with Chaol Westfall’s rebel son.”

“ _Dillon_?” Callie scoffs. “He’s a wicked little boy. I wish he’d stop following me everywhere, but Mama says that means he likes me. Do you think he likes me? I hope he doesn’t.”

Aelin’s heart sinks. She doesn’t even try to keep her devastation off her face.

Dillon and Callie loved each other all their lives. What cruel punishment, for her to have forgotten the man with whom she spent her life, who raised her children, whose death sent her into a stupor that lasted for years.

For once, Aelin is almost grateful she will never feel these effects of age. How could she bear to forget Rowan? To forget their life together?

Callie talks for hours, oblivious that she’s making Aelin’s heart break and swell all at once. She tells story after story until she inevitably gets confused, asks where Elide and Lorcan are, and starts to cry before Aelin distracts her again. Aelin’s heart aches for the little girl she loved, the woman she respected – and for her mother, whose spirit Aelin knows must be hurting to see her daughter in this state.

By the time the sun sets, Aelin’s eyes hurt from holding back tears, but her cheeks ache from smiling and laughing – grateful, at least, to have gained so many new memories of Elide and Lorcan.

“Callie, I think you should rest, darling,” Aelin says when the old woman’s eyes begin drooping closed. “I’ll come see you after supper, all right? I’ll send in some servants to get you to bed.”

“All right, auntie,” she says, smiling as Aelin presses a kiss to her dry hair.

“Listen, dear,” Aelin says, crouching in front of her chair. “You’ll see your Mama and Papa soon.”

“You promise?” she asks in childlike wonder.

“Promise,” Aelin says, her voice catching. “They’re very excited to see you. They miss you so much, darling girl.”

Callie nods, her milky eyes brimming with tears.

“I need you to do something for me, though,” Aelin says. Callie nods hurriedly, eager to help. That was what Lorcan had been most proud of, Aelin remembers: Callie's kindness, her willingness to help people.

Aelin pauses to catch her breath, smiling through her tears, before continuing. “When you see your mother…when you see your mother, you tell her I miss her, all right? Tell her I miss her every day. And that I love her – that I will _always_ love her.”

Callie nods solemnly, trying to remember her message, though Aelin knows she’ll forget it within five minutes.

“And Papa?” she prompts. “What should I tell Papa?”

“Tell your Papa,” Aelin chuckles. “That I miss him and love him, too – and if he laughs, then tell him I’ll be around one of these days to kick his ass.”

Callie laughs, astounded at the curse.

“Deal?” Aelin asks, sobbing softly now, though Callie doesn’t seem to notice.

“Deal,” Callie says, shaking Aelin’s hand.

Aelin stands, resting a hand on the back of Callie’s head as she steadies herself, feeling the warmth of her skin, the blood still coursing through her veins – Elide’s blood, Lorcan’s blood.

“Good night, Callie,” she says, heading to the door without a backward glance. She knows if she looks, she’ll be unable to leave. “I love you, dear girl.”

“I love you, too, Auntie,” Callie says, as casually as though she were still seven years old, sprawled out and playing with her dolls on the floor of the throne room.

Aelin closes the door and leans against it, eyes closed, trying to steady her breath.

_Oh, Elide_ , she thinks, a sob erupting in her chest as she remembers the wonder on her friend’s sweat-soaked face when she held Callie for the first time. _I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Your little girl. Your baby. If I could heal her, I would, Elide._

Taking deep, desperate breaths, Aelin hurries blindly out of the guest wing to a small, forgotten hallway. She tucks herself into an alcove framing a window to cry in peace. After a moment, she throws open the window and lets the familiar scent of Terrasen wash over her.

The night is still, but the air is comforting on her face, and after a few, long moments, her sobs begin to recede.

Sniffling, Aelin tries to imagine what Elide would tell her. Elide, who always said the right thing. Elide, who always knew everything.

But she has no answer. She never does, because Elide isn't here. Elide is _gone_.

_Elide?_ She thinks, looking up at the stars. _This is never going to get easier, is it? I’m never going to stop missing you, am I?_

She looks out at the moonlit plains, the silvery outline of Oakwald in the distance, and listens to the distant echoes of Elide and Lorcan’s family as they laugh and talk and love out loud on their way to supper.

Aelin leans her head against the wall, silent tears trailing down her cheeks.

A sharp, fast breeze catches her off-guard, stinging her cheek and whipping past her with so much force it feels like someone tugging at her hair. Aelin scoffs, so surprised at the sudden change in weather that she barely registers the faintest scent of amber and leather on the air. Her breath catches in her throat when she does, but before she can do something ridiculous like look around the hallway for Lorcan, a second breeze touches her.

This one is slower, softer. The wind caresses her cheek with all the gentle love of a friend’s touch, drying her tear tracks. This time, she knows she’s not imagining the trace of cinnamon and elderberries on the breeze. She reaches a hand out of the window and laughs when the wind weaves playfully through her fingers.

Aelin looks up at the stars, grateful beyond words for friends who would reach across the void to comfort her. The wind in her hair, the breeze tickling her fingers, the Queen of Terrasen smiles through her tears, feeling a little less immortal.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little different and a lot sadder than what I usually write, but I couldn't stop thinking about how lonely Aelin, Rowan, and Fenrys would be once the rest of the court passed away. 
> 
> Also, please forgive me for completely ignoring Chaol and Yrene's life-bond; I had to indulge my Chaorian heart. 
> 
> As always, I appreciate any reviews, criticisms, or suggestions! Thank you so much for reading!


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